Enough, dear Paris! We have laughed together, `Tis time that we should part, lest tears should come. I must fare on from winter and rough weather And the dark tempests chained within Time`s womb. Southwards I go. Each footstep marks the tomb Of a dead pleasure. Melun, Fontainebleau,-- How shall I name them with the ghosts that roam In their deserted streets of long ago? I will not stop to weep. Before me lie Lands larger in their purpose, and with dreams Peopled more purely; and to these I fly For ever from life`s idler stratagems. France! thy white hand I kiss in suppliant guise, Too sad to love thee, and alas! too wise.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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